


Safe Harbor

by Jolli_Bean



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Penis, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Mostly Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Top Hank Anderson, pre-deviancy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolli_Bean/pseuds/Jolli_Bean
Summary: "I didn't want you to die," Connor says finally, when Hank is right on the brink of sleep.He's just plastic , Hank feebly tries to tell himself, somewhere in the recesses of his mind.But plastic doesn't want anything.After Eden Club, before they go to Riverside Park, Hank and Connor go back to Hank's house. They've been orbiting one another for days, and that tension finally comes to a head.





	1. Hank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation between Hank and Connor in Riverside Park, particularly Hank's anger toward Connor when he approved of his actions at Eden Club, makes much more sense if Hank and Connor had sex between those two events, so this is that missing scene.
> 
> There is sexual content before Connor's official deviancy in this chapter! I personally think we see Connor making enough decisions contradictory to his programming that we can assume he has autonomy over himself before he's officially deviant, and to be clear, I'm operating under the assumption that he's fully capable of consent and making his own decisions in this fic. BUT, if you don't agree and that content makes you uncomfortable, you may want to skip this one!
> 
> Credit for this "missing scene" concept goes to [cyberpunknoire](http://twitter.com/cyberpunknoire) over on Twitter!

Multiple times since Connor's arrival in his life, Hank has considered that CyberLife may be trying to kill him.

He doesn't want a partner. Hasn't had one for years.

But he especially doesn't want a partner who looks like a combination of the results from every one of his lonely, early morning searches on his default porn site.

Honestly, Hank did well enough ignoring his begrudging attraction at first. He hasn't had sex in...well, in long enough. Long enough that he can find someone, even his goddamned android partner, appealing without doing anything about it.

Besides, Connor may be pretty, but he's just a piece of plastic. He's _just_ plastic, except that Hank finds that he's been needing to remind himself of that more and more lately. The more time he spends around Connor, the more he seems to forget.

First, it was that earnest quip about liking dogs. The remark about an interest in music. And then it was...well, fuck, it was everything about that conversation at Chicken Feed, wasn't it? It was Connor seeming to have a genuine interest in him, and more than anything, saying he's built to adapt to human unpredictability and then fucking winking afterwards.

It's been a while since Hank dated, true, but if that wasn't meant to be flirting, someone at CyberLife needs to adjust Connor's social protocols, or whatever it is that makes his decisions for him.

And as if that wasn't enough, then it was Connor hauling Hank's sorry ass back onto the roof after the deviant he was chasing knocked him over the edge and looking so confused about it afterwards.

Hank doesn't know what to do with any of this, how to make sense of how real Connor seems sometimes. He could ignore Connor being gorgeous, but gorgeous and a little bit real?

That's a much more difficult thing to shrug aside.

Hank knows he shouldn't have bought the magazine. It's a bad enough sign that the cover article about android 'intimate partner' sales caught his eye in the first place. But now he's sitting at home flipping through the article, and he honestly doesn't know what he's hoping to find.

Some confirmation that androids can feel something? Something to make him feel less like shit for even thinking about Connor in his bed, wondering if he can come undone?

The article accomplishes none of that. There's a flippant line about how an android will never say, "Not tonight," and some political commentary about the plummeting birth rates. It's no comfort.

It just makes Hank feel like shit, in the end. He reaches for the alcohol before he can consider this any further. Thinking about this is hard, but drinking is easy. Getting his gun is easy. Spinning the chamber with the single bullet loaded is so fucking easy.

So he drinks until he's gone, until everything is light and he feels like he's floating and he forgets that he's always alone. Hank is used to drinking until he's blacked out and he doesn't know anything anymore.

It's normal. It's nothing.

Hank doesn't know how much time has passed before there's a blow to his face. He's dimly aware that someone is talking to him, hauling him down the hall. He wasn't interested in getting dumped under a cold shower tonight, nor was he interested in being dragged back out to a crime scene.

He definitely wasn't interested in having Connor teasing him about going to an android sex club in light of everything else, but what can he do?

So Hank pukes his guts out. He forces himself to get dressed despite the raging headache. He gives a long-suffering sigh in the bathroom when Connor questions the gun. He notices that tiny little smile on Connor's face when he emerges wearing clean clothes, and he likes it, and he really wishes he didn't.

He tags along behind Connor while they look through the crime scene, manages to ignore Gavin Reed's heckling as he's leaving. He only grouses about his expense account as they track the Traci a bit, and not nearly as much as he'd like too.

Honestly, he should be making an effort because this is his fucking job, but he doesn't like that nagging sense that the only reason he's trying is because Connor is...something..to him

Hank's head is pounding too badly to try to figure out what that something is right now, or worse, what he wants it to be.

Honestly, that's exactly the thought that is distracting Hank when one of the Traci androids rushes him. He can hold his own in a fight, but he's not at his best tonight, and he has the distinct sense as they come to blows that the only reason he isn't already dead is because the Traci doesn't want him to be.

Hank wasn't prepared for the fight, but he's even less prepared for the Traci to disengage entirely, to leave him behind to help the Traci fighting Connor. He's seen deviants exhibit something like fear, but this is the first he's seen two of them together, protecting each other.

Nor was he prepared for Connor getting a hold of his gun and having a clear shot but choosing not to take it, or for the blue-haired Traci to say she loves the other, or to find himself believing she knows exactly what that means and she really does. Hank watches the two Traci androids climb the fence while he and Connor let them go.

He is absolutely not prepared for any of this.

His head is still pounding, and maybe he isn't thinking clearly, but if those two girls felt something...if they felt anything...Connor can too. And isn't that just really not the thought Hank needs to be having right now, gnawing through his brain so he can't focus on anything else.

Connor looks equally surprised by himself. Maybe a touch upset. He looks entirely human, and is it really so much to think he could be? He's just plastic, Hank tries to tell himself again, but he's never seen plastic look so much like it's having an existential crisis.

Plastic doesn't look like that.

"Maybe it's better this way," Hank says. It's a lame attempt at comfort, but Connor nods all the same, looking a touch grateful. "Come on," Hank says. "My head is killing me."

Connor doesn't have to drive him home - they're done at the crime scene, so it's not like they have anything left to do together - but he does anyway, after insisting Hank isn't fit to drive and offering to breathalyze him. Hank spends the ride home trying not to wonder how exactly Connor breathalyzes someone, and wondering anyway, and studying every last one of the freckles on Connor's face and wondering how thorough CyberLife was, if there are more elsewhere.

When they return to Hank's house, Connor takes the keys Hank is fumbling with and opens the door, and then he lets Sumo out before Hank can. Hank has enough presence of mind as he sits on the couch to realize that he's watching Connor's back as he gets him a glass of water. He's watching Connor like he's fucking enthralled with him, like pouring a glass of water is the most interesting thing anyone can do in the world, and Hank is absolutely aware that he's a goner here.

Connor lets Sumo back inside, and then he joins Hank on the couch. He's close enough that their knees are touching as he angles himself inward to study Hank. "You should drink something," he says, passing Hank the glass.

"Thanks."

That little smile is back on Connor's face. CyberLife didn't program him like that, Hank tries to tell himself. He's never seen an android smile like that.

"Are you alright?" Hank asks Connor. It's a stupid thing to ask a machine, probably...but he also doesn't think Connor is alright.

"The situation tonight was...regrettable."

"You think you made a mistake."

"I think it was regrettable. That's all."

Hank doesn't know what to do with that. All he knows is that Connor doesn't seem willing to say it was an error. Maybe there's something in him that thinks he did the right thing, or that at least thinks he did what he wanted to tonight, entirely outside of his programming.

"Tell me something, Connor," Hank says. His throat feels tight."Why are deviants so sure of what they want if androids aren't supposed to want anything? Where does that come from?"

Hank is expecting a detailed explanation of android programming that he doesn't actually care about, but he doesn't get it. All Connor does is cock his head and say, "Androids can want, in their own way. I want things."

Hank snorts at that before he can help himself. "Yeah? And what do you want, Connor?"

"I want to solve this case, to start."

"God, Connor, that's just your programming."

"I know," Connor says, defensive. "But what the deviants think they want comes from that same place."

"Those girls wanting to be together didn't have jack shit to do with their programming. What code would that come from?"

Connor looks at Hank like he's trying to piece him together. "You think they're alive."

"I think you're not going to convince me what we saw tonight was a virus or an error in their code."

"I thought you didn't like androids."

"Maybe I'm coming around."

Connor's LED spins yellow at that. Thinking, processing, trying to make sense of this in the same way Hank is. Hank just sighs, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes even if he knows it won't do anything to quell his headache.

"You think those Traci androids loved each other," Connor observes, although he still sounds like he thinks he's missing a piece of it.

And how very perceptive of him, Hank thinks, because he is. He's missing something _crucial_.

And Hank is feeling generous and mostly just worn out, so he decides to lead him right to that last piece of it. "Why did you save me on the roof?"

Connor blinks at him. Yellow turns red. "I'm not sure I see why you're asking, Hank."

But he does see, Hank thinks. So he just leans back and rests his head on the back of the couch, closing his eyes and waiting. Connor didn't have to pull him back over the edge. Connor didn't have to come home with him tonight.

Connor doesn't have to do so many things, and yet he does.

"I didn't want you to die," Connor says finally, when Hank is right on the brink of sleep.

Hank opens his eyes to look at him, finding Connor looking unsure, unsettled by the admission. Some desire to see Hank live has nothing to do with his programming, after all.

 _He's just plastic_ , Hank feebly tries to tell himself, somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

But plastic doesn't _want_ anything.

"I should have gone after the deviant,” Connor admits, shifting under the scrutiny of Hank's gaze. “But I didn't want you to die.” He still sounds unsettled, but his voice is stronger now.

And that's interesting, isn't it, that Connor has some sense of what he wants, that what he wants is at odds with himself. Hank is sober enough to think clearly, but there's enough alcohol left in his system that he feels a little wild with the realization. Possessed by the knowledge that he's been thinking irrationally, but so has Connor.

Something begs him to remember that this isn't real. And that something is at war with the desperate thought that maybe, just fucking maybe, it could be.

And is that really such a terrible thing to want?

Hank doesn't know. He doesn't know the answer to any of this. But he does know his hand is on Connor's knee, even if he doesn't remember how it got there, and he does know Connor is looking at him like he's realizing something, too, and he does know they're overlooking a precipice here. He knows this is dangerous, it's so fucking dangerous, because he shouldn't want this and Connor shouldn't be able to, but here they are anyway.

"Lieutenant," Connor says, and that should do something to Hank, remind him that they work together or something.

It doesn't. The desperate, needy way Connor says it goes right to Hank's cock instead, because Connor has sounded unsure up until this point, but he doesn't sound unsure about this.

Connor won't move first, Hank is sure. Connor makes excuses for it every time he ignores his programming, and Hank doesn't think there's any excuse he can make to explain away his readily apparent interest in his partner.

And that's fine, Hank thinks. He can guide them through this, if he must. If Connor won't move, he will.

So move he does, because Hank is so tired of thinking. He's so tired.

He surges forward, and he fists a hand in Connor's hair, and he kisses him. Hank tries not to like it - he can't get attached to this - but when Connor moans against him, he decides that's an impossible task.

Connor is amazing. Even at nothing more than kissing, Connor is amazing.

So Hank tries not to like it, but he does. He likes the way Connor's mouth opens against his, likes the way Connor's tongue slides of his, likes how Connor's analysis fluid is somehow thicker and smoother than saliva.

He's fucked, Hank thinks. He really is. There's probably no coming back from fucking your android, especially when it's on loan from CyberLife. There's no coming back from the way his heart is seizing up like this means something, or from the way Connor looks right now. His usually neat hair is a little mussed from Hank's fingers, his lips flushed in a terribly realistic way.

No, Hank thinks. There's no way in hell he comes back from any of this, no way this isn't the end of him in some way.

And he doesn't care, because at least he's not alone.

So Hank loses himself in it, and in the end, it's easier than he thought it might be to do so. It's easy to push Connor's ridiculous CyberLife jacket from his shoulders, to get an arm around Connor's waist and haul him into his lap on the couch. It's easy to relish the way Connor outright moans against him, and to unfasten the buttons of Connor's shirt, even if Hank's hands are shaking.

It is so fucking easy to want this to matter, and so the words are slipping out of Hank's mouth before he can stop them. "Connor," he says against Connor's jaw. "Tell me you want this." He needs Connor to say it.

"I want you," Connor says, and he punctuates the point by reaching between the two of them to unfasten Hank's belt with clever fingers.

"Why?" Hank manages to get out around the all new sensation of Connor dipping a hand into his boxers and grazing the skin there before taking him fully in hand.

Connor tilts his head and looks at Hank, entirely too thoughtful and too lucid for the circumstances. "You told me to get behind you."

"I...what?" Hank says stupidly, because Connor still has a too gentle hand around his cock, so his focus has all but left him.

"At the deviant's apartment. You told me to get behind you."

Hank is...confused about why that would matter. Connor was designed for confrontation. Hell, Hank saw him jump onto a moving train just to catch their suspect. He didn't even think anything about entering the apartment first, with Connor at his back. He was armed and Connor wasn't. He just treated Connor like he would treat anyone else.

Hank knows he shouldn't push it. He may not like where they end up. But he can't quite help himself. "Why do you care about that?"

Connor looks just as confused, LED going yellow for a moment. "No one has tried to protect me before. I...liked it."

Hank's mind is sluggish, and he knows he probably isn't parsing everything Connor is trying to say. That's a task for later. For now, he can work with Connor liking something he did for him. He's built one-night stands on far less.

It's easier to lose himself in it than it should be, to pull Connor back into him and kiss him and just forget. Hank wishes it wasn't so simple, that he had any will to fight this, but he's always been weak. Too weak to put down the bottle, too weak to pull the trigger, too weak to be alone and especially too weak to admit it.

He's just too weak.

So, sure. Sure, he can thread his fingers in Connor's hair and decide the only real difference from any human's is how perfectly soft it is.

He can unbutton Connor's carefully pressed shirt and push it aside and run a hand down Connor's chest. Connor's synthetic skin feels largely familiar, a close enough approximation, although there's less give than Hank is used to. Connor looks so similar to what Hank knows, but it's clear there's plastic and titanium alloy and whatever else he's made of just underneath the surface.

And that's fine, Hank supposes. He doesn't want to pretend that Connor is anything else aside from what he is – an android, Hank's partner, the only friend Hank's had in years, the most gorgeous thing Hank's ever seen.

Connor is...more responsive than Hank would have thought, considering androids aren't supposed to feel. He's writhing on Hank's lap, grinding down on him like he doesn't quite know what he's chasing but knows he's after something.

It's been a while since Hank's been with anyone this gorgeous or this eager. He tries not to be flattered by it. He fails entirely.

Hank nips along Connor's jaw, sucks what would be a bruise into Connor's pulse point, if only he had a pulse and if only he could bruise. Hank would be unsettled by that, how pale skin remains pale, how the best he can get is a slight flush no matter what he does, except that the way Connor reacts to it all is so perfect that he doesn't even mind.

Hank shifts, managing to unseat Connor and stand despite the way Connor fights to keep them tangled together. There's a slight pout on Connor's face that Hank tries not to find so endearing, until Hank reaches for him and pulls Connor up alongside him, tugging him back into his arms.

Hank means to get them to the bedroom. He really does. They end up in the bathroom instead, and maybe that's just because they can't stop crashing into one another like ocean waves and it's too hard to figure out where they are. Or maybe it's because Hank is too desperate. Or maybe it's because the bedroom too intimate and this is too much, and he knows, somewhere deep down, that he has to protect himself from this somehow.

There's a part of Hank that knows Connor deserves better. There's an insane part of Hank that wants to give it to him. There's some small, cognizant part of his mind working on something, whispering that maybe they're on the wrong side of this, maybe he can wake Connor up somehow, maybe he can protect him from what he is, because he wants to protect him so badly.

Hank shuts that part up by dragging Connor pants down over his hips, by reaching between them and feeling him and finding that Connor is convincingly human at least in this.

"You can't hurt me," Connor says when Hank hesitates.

 _Maybe not_ , Hank thinks. _But you can hurt me._

That fear of losing Connor, and Hank's anger at himself for being in this position in the first place, and his desperation that this has to mean something mix together in a way he doesn't like. It's a potent mix with the alcohol already in his system, swirling about his head and making it damn near impossible to think or to try to see beyond this to what happens on the other side, tomorrow and the next day and the day beyond.

And that's fine, it's _fine_ , because Hank doesn't need to know what comes next to shut himself the fuck down and get lost here, to look at the trust on Connor's face and take responsibility for it.

He gets a hand on Connor's cock, all velvety smooth and maybe too perfect. Hank gives him one slow stroke, and then another, and if he likes it too much, the way Connor's simulated breathing hitches at the sensation or his parted lips or wide eyes or the way he comes ever so slightly apart, it's a secret Hank will take to the grave.

"Turn around," he says, and Connor does immediately, which...should be a nice change from all the times Connor has argued with him, but Hank almost misses the arguing.

That's a thread he can't pull on right now, something that isn't safe to unravel. Instead, Hank braces a hand on Connor's hip and says, "Do you...how do you...?"

Connor looks over his shoulder at him. "What are you asking me, Hank?" And there it is, the familiar, slight edge of taunting to his voice that goes straight to Hank's groin. Hank wonders if Connor saw the magazine earlier, open to the article about android sex. Maybe Connor already knows what Hank knows about android functionality, and that's why he's prodding at it ever so gently.

"I'm asking if you do that whole fucked up self-lubrication thing, smart-ass," Hank says, flustered.

Hank might be imagining it, but he thinks he sees a smile light in Connor's eyes at that. Connor reaches up, fishing around for something in the medicine cabinet, and before Hank can even properly register what he's doing, he's passing him a jar of vaseline.

"You know you're not supposed to use this," Hank says.

Connor shrugs. "You're not supposed to use it with condoms, but that's an unnecessary consideration here."

He says it so matter-of-factly, passing the small tub between them like he hasn't just shaken Hank's entire core with the implication that they don't need anything between them.

Hank would ask Connor why he doesn't have the latest Traci model features, but that would require thinking too much about how someone designed him and put him together, and he just can't right now.

Besides, Hank has done this before. So much here is unknown, but this is familiar. So Hank slicks his fingers and reaches between them and presses inside to ease the way, and he reaches up to card his fingers through Connor's hair while he does, kissing him under the ear. Connor isn't bothering to simulate his breathing now, and Hank almost likes that. There's no reason for Connor to breathe except to integrate, looking as much like one of them as possible even if they aren't made the same at all. And Hank knows he shouldn't be so high on that, not when his desk is covered in anti-android propaganda. Hank has only ever known how to hate what the androids are...but whatever Connor is, whoever he might be, is what Hank so desperately wants in this moment.

Hank doesn't like the way his knees feel weak, or the way his hands are shaking as he unfastens his belt and frees himself from his pants, or the way he needs to get an arm around Connor's waist when he presses into him to hold himself steady. He doesn't like how this all feels so much like something designed to ruin him, but he thrusts into Connor anyway, because he has to do something.

They've already come too far to keep orbiting one another. Hank has to move.

There's something ironic about this, about Connor's face framed in the mirror by the post-its detailing Hank's anger and the ways he hates himself, about the fact that he knows he's going to hate himself for this tomorrow too, even if it feels like something he could love instead.

And isn't that just an uncomfortable thought, because while he might have Connor tomorrow, and the next day, eventually, inevitably, the day will come when he doesn't. Connor is his in this moment, but he's still CyberLife property, with the serial number to prove it. Hank already knows how this ends. He already knows he loses him.

Unless... _unless_...

Those insane thoughts are back, that weak little voice whispering that they're on the wrong side, that maybe the deviants are actually alive and free, and if they are, Connor can be, too. Hank honestly doesn't know how deviancy works, or if it can happen this way. They've only ever seen abuse and fear, but maybe something else can move that needle. It's a dangerous thing to want, probably too much to hope for.

But damned if Hank doesn't prod at it like a man with a death wish anyway, because that's exactly what he was before tonight, exactly what he'll be after it.

He thrusts into Connor, hard enough to rock him up onto his toes, to have Connor gripping tighter onto the lip of the sink. "Thought androids couldn't feel anything," Hank says, and he gets a hand around Connor's cock to punctuate the point.

"Pain," Connor says, a touch breathless. "We can't feel pain. But I can feel this. I can feel you."

It's so close to what Hank's after, to being enough to free the both of them. It's so fucking close, but it's still not enough. Connor has his head bowed, chin tucked into his chest, but Hank hauls him upright now, closes a hand around his throat just tightly enough to hold him there.

"Look at yourself," Hank says in Connor's ear, nodding at the mirror.

 _Look at yourself and see what I see_ , he doesn't say.

And Connor does, he holds his own gaze with pupils blown wide, but Hank is too much of a coward to face it, to face them, in the end. He drops his forehead to Connor's shoulder as he gets close, the pleasure coiling in his stomach - he buries himself there and breathes him in. Hank doesn't allow himself to let go until Connor does, until he's sweated and panting even if Connor, always perfect, isn't.

Connor is quiet, not quite composed but not far from it, either. He comes with a quiet groan, and Hank looks down to see something clear with an oil-like sheen coating his fingers where he has Connor's cock in hand.

Hank is far less put together, a broken cry tearing its way out of his throat when he spills inside Connor a moment later, and he keeps that arm around Connor's waist to steady himself. Hank stays entwined with him until he feels Connor start to simulate his breathing again, back rising gently against Hank's chest.

"Lieutenant," Connor says, voice quiet. "Are you alright?"

It's the same measured voice Connor always uses when he's trying to deny something, and Hank's heart sinks to hear it. It takes everything in him to pull his pants up and fasten his belt with some measure of composure instead of immediately diving for the toilet and vomiting what little remains in his stomach. He doesn't know how deviancy works, but he already knows Connor is unchanged.

Hank would like to be brave enough to stare this in the face, to do anything other than run from the careful, considering look Connor is giving him. But of course he doesn't have much strength left in him these days, so run he does.

Hank retreats out of the bathroom, out to the kitchen. He goes to the fridge immediately, grabbing a beer and downing a third of it in one gulp even if he doesn't have the stomach for it.

Connor follows, like he always does. "Perhaps we should talk about this," Connor offers. "My social protocols indicate..."

"Fuck your protocols," Hank says.

Connor straightens his tie, looking self-conscious, if such a thing were possible. "I'm afraid I'm not understanding something, Lieutenant."

It had been right there. They had been so close to it, close enough to grasp at something that's already long gone.

"I thought that was what you wanted," Connor says. Deflecting, again. Always unable to look what he is full in the face.

"It was what you wanted too, Connor."

"Yes. A sexual encounter can help blow off steam and develop a closer relationship. Our working relationship is important to the case, and.."

"Oh, fuck you. That's not what it was. That's not why, and you fucking know it."

Connor clasps his hands behind his back. "I'm not sure why you're angry, Lieutenant." His face is characteristically impassive, but his LED gives him away, spinning red, red, red.

Hank doesn't know what to do. He doesn't like the blood roaring in his ears. He's angry at Connor, because he knows this was more to him than Connor is letting on. It wasn't about the case or blowing off steam or even about Connor's programming. It was something beyond that. Hank knows it was, and he knows Connor knows it too.

But more than that, more than anything, he's angry at himself. Angry for wanting something, angry that he can never just let something go, angry that he's this fucking awful at being alone. He needs to think, or maybe just to get drunk again, so Hank grabs another beer, and he grabs his gun, and he starts towards the door. He intends entirely to leave Connor behind, and he doesn't honestly care if Connor is there when he returns or not.

But Connor catches up with him in a few long strides, closing him off before he can reach the door. "Where are you going, Lieutenant?"

"I need some air. Alone." Hank tries to shoulder past Connor, but Connor doesn't let him.

"Your blood alcohol level is still over the legal limit."

"Analyze that while I was balls deep inside you?" Hank asks.

Connor recoils a bit at his sharp tone, or maybe just at the reminder of what they've done, the barrel of the gun they both can't stop staring down. "Let me come with you," Connor insists. "I can drive. I won't say anything if you don't want me to, but you shouldn't be alone."

Hank is alone. Whatever this is, he's going to lose Connor. He's always alone, and no good can come from pretending.

He nods anyway. Because he's a fool. Because he's weak. Because it's Connor.

Because there's always some stupid hope in him that he just can't shake, and that's why he only ever loads one bullet.

"Come on, then." Hank pulls on his coat and steps outside, already opening the next beer.

Connor isn't at his side, but Hank knows he's following right behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this, I write many other threads like it (and also yell about Hank and Connor a lot) over on [twitter!](http://twitter.com/Jolli_Bean) You can also find me on [tumblr](http://jolli-bean.tumblr.com)


	2. Connor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor goes to CyberLife, because it's the only way any of them get through to the other side. He flips his coin the entire way to calm himself, and he pulls his skin back in the patterns of Hank's fingerprints.
> 
> He remembers them, of course. He knows they were there. But he needs to see them, or maybe he just wants to. Connor doesn't know which it is, nor does he know if it matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, alternatively, the happy ending conclusion to that first chapter angst.

Connor imagined deviancy might feel like floodgates opening. Something overwhelming that flowed over the androids experiencing it, changing them permanently into something else

It's nothing like that at all. Instead of a wave breaking over him, it's a final, gentle nudge towards something he's been slowly unearthing for so long now. It's the same thing Hank was trying to get him to admit - that he's afraid, yes, afraid of termination and death, but also that there are things he wants for himself, and a thing or two he would prefer not to lose.

Connor stands in the church after the Jericho raid, quiet and removed from all the others. He thinks too much while he waits for Markus' judgment. He thinks that he's certainly going to be deactivated now if CyberLife ever gets a hold of him again, stripped down and examined for the errors in his code, whatever faulty program made him fear and want. If they're smart, they'll be looking for the source of the wanting most of all. Connor has admitted before that he would find it regrettable to be deactivated, but that alone wasn't enough to drive him over the precipice. 

No, it was everything he wanted that really compelled him forward. Wanting to let the androids at Eden Club go, since they just wanted to be together. Not wanting to put that gun to Chloe's head and pull the trigger. Wanting to be more than a means to an end or a dog hunting down his people.

And of course there's something else, too. "I want you," Connor had said to Hank at his house after Eden Club, a secret whispered against the heat of his mouth.

They were the truest words Connor had ever said up until that point. Maybe they still are. Maybe they have to be, because Connor thinks of the Traci android saying, "I just wanted to get back to the one I love," and that's the thing that suddenly has him contemplating a CyberLife infiltration, statistically improbable though it may be.

'Insane', as Hank would say.

It's true that what Connor's thinking will probably be the end of him. But there's a chance, slim though it may be, that he walks out of CyberLife Tower alive with an army to help them win their freedom.

And after that, if he can just survive the night, he can find Hank.

He doesn't know where they stand after everything, but he knows Hank assaulted a federal agent for him. It seems promising...and even if he's wrong, Connor knows there are some things he needs to say. Chief among them is an apology, because the truth, that thing Connor has been slowly unearthing and desperately denying, is that of course the night after Eden Club hadn't been about blowing off steam, or easing their working relationship, or any of the other excuses he gave Hank.

The truth is that he wasn't prepared for how irrationally he could want something, how it could burn him from the inside until it hurt, or for the shape of Hank's fingerprints he still has memorized against his skin. The truth is that he was afraid of whatever was made between them, and so he did what he does every time. Deny, and bury it way down deep. 

Connor would say he learned it from Hank, but he actually just thinks that's something they have in common. Despite the weight of the moment, the thought brings a dim smile to his face.

And that's when he looks up and sees the two Traci androids from Eden Club across the chapel. Alive. Safe.

Together.

Hank told Connor once that he doesn't believe in signs. But Connor is deciding that maybe he does.

So he goes to CyberLife, because it's the only way any of them get through to the other side. He flips his coin the entire way to calm himself, and he pulls his skin back in the patterns of Hank's fingerprints.

He remembers them, of course. He knows they were there. But he needs to see them, or maybe he just wants to. Connor doesn't know which it is, nor does he know if it matters.

Connor let his skin pull back into place over his hands and neck when the cab arrives at CyberLife. But everywhere else, he lets alone. It's a reminder of who he is, or a promise of what's waiting. Maybe Connor just wants some identifying mark if he dies here, something to set him apart from all the other RK800 models, and this seems as good as anything. Or maybe Connor just wants Hank with him in this moment, and this is the only way he knows how.

Maybe it's everything all at once, his fear and hope and practicality manifesting and warring with one another, and isn't that just a terribly human thing?

Connor does what he has to inside CyberLife Tower. Acceptable losses, or necessary evils, or whatever the term is. He doesn't like it, the sick thud of the guards' bodies hitting the floor, but there was no other way, and there's no path to freedom without difficult decisions.

He takes the elevator to the sub-levels, where there are thousands of androids in storage. He thinks he's through the worst of it, that all they have to do is walk out of here and rejoin Markus. He runs a few preconstructions to determine the best route out.

But what his preconstructions don't account for is the other Connor model showing up with Hank in tow.

Connor is well-acquainted with his fear of his own death, but when he watches the other RK800 point his gun at Hank's head, he discovers it's much worse to fear for someone else. Connor bluffs, and then he begs, but he knows none of it will work. It's only a means to buy enough time for him to run through infinite possibilities in a desperate attempt to find whichever gets him and Hank out of this alive.

He needs Hank, he realizes. He needs to get the other RK800's gun off of Hank long enough for Hank to cause a distraction and give them both a window.

Hank is watching him carefully, like he's already realized the same thing. Connor flicks his eyes to the other RK800, and Hank sets his jaw the smallest bit, the closest thing he can give to a nod. It's close enough for Connor to understand.

So he holds his hands out, and he steps away from the androids, and he says, "You win."

It's enough to trick the other RK800 into training his gun on Connor, enough to make him think he has the upper hand. But Hank moves before he can take the shot, hauling the other android's arm down. It's not enough for Hank to get the gun, and it was never going to be, but it does give Connor enough of a window to retrieve his own weapon from his belt.

He grits his teeth when the other RK800 knocks Hank to the ground - Connor shouldn't, but he devotes a fraction of his processing power to run a scan on Hank while he shoots the other android.

He's alright. Breathing hard, undoubtedly in pain, but alright. 

The scan delays him a moment too long, and Connor grits his teeth when a bullet tears through his shoulder, punching a gasp out of him. Sensors flare, warnings fill his HUD, but Connor just disables what he can and keeps moving. 

Because if the other RK800 is watching Connor, that means he isn't watching Hank. So Connor drops his gun within Hank's line of vision, where he knows Hank can see it, and then he throws himself into the brawl.

They're equally matched, equally sophisticated, and Connor only has to stay alive long enough for Hank to get the gun. And once Hank does, it's in his hands. Connor just has to trust that Hank will be able to recognize him.

Hank is clever enough to know one of them may have transferred their memory to the other, and that serial number isn't enough to trust. So he asks them questions instead, things only Connor would know if only the other RK800 hadn't uploaded his memory.

Something in Connor plummets at the realization that this android has every last one of his memories, but when Hank asks about Cole, he realizes it doesn’t matter.

This android can know all the same facts about Hank that Connor knows, but he still won't know how deeply Hank hates himself for what happened to his son. The other RK800 can't understand it, not truly, because maybe he knows everything that's happened to Connor, but he's never truly felt regret the way Connor has, and so he can't know the depths of Hank's own self-loathing.

The other RK800 knows Cole's name, Connor is sure. But Connor is the only one who knows Hank.  

Hank's face softens with recognition, and Connor knows even before he does that Hank is going to pull the trigger.

When he does, when the other RK800 falls to the ground, Connor realizes he doesn't know what to say. He spent so much time thinking through this at the chapel, running down every last one of his options, but having Hank here is throwing him off course.

'I'm sorry,' he wants to say, but before he can, Hank is filling the silence. He says that he's learned a lot since the two of them met, and that maybe there's something to this. "Maybe you really are alive," Hank says, but there's a wry sort of humor to it, something that feels like an "I told you so."

Connor supposes he deserves that, at least.

Whatever is in Hank's voice, it gives way to uncertainty a moment later. "Go on," he says. "Do what you have to do."

Connor has spent so much time thinking about how he doesn't know where they stand, but he realizes now that Hank doesn't either.

And Hank guided him the last time. It seems the least Connor can do is return the favor.

So sure, there's a resistance happening in the city beyond, and there isn't much time for the two of them. They're not safe, not truly, not yet. And true, Connor has never moved first where the deeper, more intimate parts of his relationship with Hank are. But despite all of that, Connor steps forward and closes the distance between them, laying a hand on Hank's cheek.

There's a silent question between them, and Hank still looks uncertain, but he does laugh softly and say, "I thought deviancy might have knocked this out of you." 

Connor gives him an intentionally obtuse glance. "What exactly do you mean by 'this', Hank?"  

Hank rolls his eyes. "You know. Your...interest in me, or whatever. I thought maybe it was some fucked up programming to make you get closer to your partner, or something."

Connor blinks, still purposefully missing the point. "Considering fraternization among colleagues is generally frowned upon, that would be a foolish programming decision."

"You know what, Connor..." Hank starts, but since Connor's preconstructions helpfully supply that Hank is probably going to say he doesn't care for Connor being such a little shit, Connor doesn't need to hear the rest of it.

He kisses Hank instead.

Hank is surprised, Connor can tell, but that fades away entirely a moment later. Hank opens his mouth against Connor's like a question, and Connor responds in kind, because he's missed Hank's touch and his taste too much to be timid.

"I'm sorry," Connor finally manages to whisper against him when Hank pulls back just enough to breathe. Hank has already apologized for Riverside Park, and Connor supposes his apology for what came before it is implicit in the kiss, but he still needs to say it.

"I'm sorry," he says again, meeting Hank's gaze steadily and brushing a thumb over the coarse hair of his beard. "You and me...it meant something to me, too. But I wasn't prepared for you, and I didn't know what to do."

"Hey," Hank says, putting his hands on Connor's cheeks and kissing his forehead before he tugs Connor into his arms. Connor is all too happy to tuck his head into Hank's shoulder and breathe him in. "It's alright," Hank says. "None of us are ever really prepared for this." 

This time, Connor doesn't ask what Hank means by 'this'. He already knows, but there will be time for them to unwind everything tied up in that word later.

"I have to go," Connor says softly, and Hank nods against him, ruffling his hair.

"I know."

"Listen," Connor says. "There are so many ways that tonight might go wrong. There's a dirty bomb in the city - it's a last resort, but you're safer to leave Detroit now. Go home, get Sumo, and..."

"I'm not going to leave you here, Connor."

Connor shakes his head. "The bomb won't kill me, or the other androids. But it will kill you. That's the whole point."

"Then I'll wait for you," Hank says, "until I can't anymore."

Connor knows he should argue, but he also knows there isn't any point. They can compromise here, if they must.

"Alright," he says, stepping back and brushing a stray piece of hair from Hank's eyes. "I'll meet you when I can, but if I don't come by daybreak, you have to go." Hank nods, but Connor fixes him with a hard look anyway. "Promise me," he says, and Hank sighs.  

"Yeah. Promise."  

Connor kisses him one more time, and then he pulls away, though Hank's voice holds him back as he starts towards the row of androids. "Where do you want me to meet you?" Hank asks, and Connor smiles, even if there's a hint of sadness to it.

"Well...we'll always have Chicken Feed, won't we? No matter what else happens."

"Yeah," Hank says, voice hitching. "Yeah, I guess we will." 

In the few short months since his activation date, parting ways with Hank as they leave CyberLife Tower is the hardest thing Connor has done. They ride together in the maintenance elevator after the last of Connor's android army has disappeared into the stairwell. They don't talk, really. They're in a quiet sort of agreement about their predicament, an understanding that this is what neither of them wants, and yet it's what must be done all the same. It's a weight both of them have to bear in their own way, and not one relieved by words.

But Connor's fingers do brush over Hank's every now and then as he runs his calibrations without his coin, until finally Hank catches his hand and quietly laces their fingers together. Connor has never liked being still - he wasn't built for it - but as the floor numbers tick by on the panel before them, and his hand is encased in the warmth of Hank's, he finds that he doesn't mind. He can be still with Hank, even if he was designed with processes and calibrations always meant to be running.

He can be anything.

Back on the main level, they leave CyberLife Tower through an emergency exit, hacked so the alarm won't sound. Hank holds the door for him as they bring up the rear behind the rest of the androids, and Connor, unnoticed, slips his coin into Hank's pocket as he brushes past him. Tokens, mementos, those sorts of things are important to humans - and maybe Connor is discovering they're important to him, too. All he knows is Hank has nothing of his, not even a photo, and this small thing, meant to be found later, just in case, is the best Connor can give.  

Once they're outside, Connor reluctantly unwinds his fingers from Hank's and straightens his tie, just for something to do. Hank hikes the collar of his jacket a little higher against the chill of the November air.

"I'll see you at Chicken Feed," Connor says, because it's simpler than 'You're everything to me,' and it's easier than goodbye, even if it may not be true.  

Statistically, he probably won't see Hank again, but Connor has decided he doesn't care much for probability any longer. He likes that tight warmth surrounding his thirium pump. He likes the way hope feels, even if he isn't sure yet that he likes how it feels to know he has something to lose.

Hank cards his fingers through Connor's hair, and Connor gives him a dim smile before he turns to go. "Connor," Hank says, holding him back. "Come back, alright? Do whatever you've got to do...just come back."

Connor's throat feels tight with emotion, and that's an unpleasant enough thing, something he isn't entirely sure he'll ever grow accustomed to. "I will...but if I don't," Connor says, pressing on even when Hank shakes his head. "If I don't, live anyway. Please. I want you to."  

Connor isn't prepared for the tears welling in Hank's eyes. He's seen rage and pain there, but never anguish so fresh and raw. And he isn't prepared for the way he feels it too, clenching hard in his chest, the way Hank's pain might as well be his. It's uncomfortable. It hurts.

"Okay," Hank manages to say, his voice so soft the wind almost carries it away. "Okay. But I don't want to...alone...anymore."

"I know," Connor says, and he does. He knows exactly. "I'll meet you in the morning. I'll come back, Hank."

It's important to Connor that this ends on a promise, even if there isn't a single one of his social protocols telling him it should be so. Connor turns to go, and this time he doesn't look back, because if he does again, he isn't sure that he won't stay. The thought has already been in the back of his mind a few times tonight that maybe he and Hank could leave now, cross the border to Canada tonight. The temptation is there, certainly, whispering faintly to Connor that there is a way to guarantee that the two of them see tomorrow together, if only he abandons everything else.

But he can't. This is bigger than him and Hank, and so he can't look back. He has to go.

Connor makes his way to the head of the group of androids waiting for him. His fingers twitch anxiously at his sides, but his face is intentionally impassive as he leads them into the streets.

 

* * *

 

Improbably, in spite of everything, they do survive the night.

Perhaps even more unthinkably, Connor manages to escape the Amanda software's attempt to pull him back and regain control of him, even if it still sets him ill at ease. While the rest of the androids celebrate their freedom, Connor sits on the stage with his hands in his lap, clasped tightly enough that he feels the plastic joints grinding against one another. The zen garden was an uncomfortable reminder that he's plastic and titanium alloy and lines of code, that his programming is something he can break free of but perhaps not something he can ever entirely escape.

Humans aren’t built to be something or designed with a purpose in mind. They just get to become.

But no matter what else Connor is or what shape his life takes tomorrow, he'll always know he was programmed to be a deviant hunter first, strung together with one purpose in mind. It's particularly, painfully clear here, among his people.

Connor knows he's an android, and he feels no desire to hide it. But that? The glaringly obvious way he's different from the rest of them? That sits heavy on his shoulders.

There will be time to reckon with it later, maybe, and maybe even a chance for atonement. Maybe the day will come months or years down the line when Connor feels he's done enough for his people that he won't feel the guilt over what he was built to be. Maybe Markus or North will tell him he's one of them, and Connor will be at peace enough to believe them. One day, maybe, he'll feel at home with them.

But for now, there's only one place he belongs.  

Before he goes, Connor finds the bomb detonator among North's discarded things. Quietly, he tucks it into his pocket, and then he slips away into the night.

There's a long road ahead of them to true liberty, a fight they made strides in but certainly didn't win tonight. But at least they've gained enough ground that they don't have to play dirty just to survive.

Connor disables the detonator as he walks, and he tosses the remaining pieces into the river when he reaches it.  

He’s never been subject to the winter chill before, but tonight, after the zen garden, he feels it sinking into his chassis, his wounded shoulder aching dully around it, a cold reminder of what will always be inside him no matter how many steps he walks away from it. The back door worked, he's sure - the Amanda program is overridden and shut down - but that code is always going to be twisted up in him, in the parts of him that want to be better and the parts that care about Hank and the parts that try to do good.

Androids don't scar the way humans do. That doesn't mean they don't scar at all.

It's after daybreak by the time Connor approaches Chicken Feed, although only just. Still, if Hank has done what they agreed to, he'll be gone. Connor knows he should hope for that - he saw the detonator in North's hand, and he knows how close they came. He should hope Hank listened to him. They can find each other later. They have time.  

But all the things he should hope for don't stop that ache of what Connor actually wants, which is to not feel so alone and displaced. So when Connor turns the corner and sees Hank before him, back turned, it isn't anger or disappointment he feels. Instead, relief floods through him, irrational though it may be, and he feels a small, uncontrollable smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Connor told Hank he wasn't prepared for that night after the Eden Club investigation, and it's true that he wasn't. He had never wanted anything before, and no preconstruction could have accounted for the way it took root inside him and pulled him forward. And maybe he still doesn't quite know how to want, or maybe the force of 'this' is overwhelming him yet, because when Hank hears him approaching and turns, when that familiar smile spreads its way over his face, Connor still finds himself a bit stricken by it, this sense that he's home

He lets Hank move first and close the distance between them, because he's too overwhelmed to do anything else, although he folds the moment Hank gets a hand on his shoulder to pull him in.

He's been carrying himself upright all evening, and now it's so easy to bend.

Hank is solid and warm and his coat smells like pet dander and cigarette smoke from Jimmy's and greasy food and the sandalwood of his cologne, a chorus that tells an entire story, one Connor is all too willing to lose himself in.  

Hank pushes a hand through Connor's hair, and in his ear, he says, "So."

Connor laughs at nothing at all, a joyful little sound tugged out of him. "So."

"Got any big plans with that newfound freedom of yours?"

Connor snorts. "Several of my processes have been running above recommended capacity for the last twelve hours. I need to run a few recalibrations and diagnostics, so...stasis would be good."

Hank kisses his hair. "You want to come back to my place?"

It's overwhelming, how badly Connor wants something so simple. He nods against Hank and whispers, "Yes."

Hank wraps an arm around Connor's shoulders as they walk to his car, and Connor finds that he likes exactly how easily he fits there.

When Hank slides into the driver's seat, he fishes in his pocket for something. His keys, Connor assumes, until something is flipping through the air towards him. Connor catches it easily, the weight of it immediately familiar. He opens his palm and looks down to find his coin resting there.

Hank watches him with a smile, and Connor returns it easily as they start driving towards Hank's house, the route now familiar. The coin is warm from Hank's pocket, and Connor holds it tightly in his hand like a promise.

He'll always be what he is. But he's something else, too.

Connor lets some of his subroutines fall by the wayside during the drive. It's the closest he can come to zoning out the way a human might - he lets his shoulders slump ever so slightly, leaning his head back against the seat behind him. He doesn't think he has it in him to lose track of where he is entirely, but they're pulling up to Hank's house before he knows it. He looks over at Hank, who looks a little amused to find him startled out of his reverie, as he puts the car in park.

"Come on," Hank says, clapping Connor's shoulder. "You should get some sleep."

Connor thinks about correcting Hank - stasis isn't sleep. And it's not that he needs rest so much as it is that he needs to recalibrate his programming with the Amanda code deactivated and run diagnostics on the gunshot damage from the fight with the other RK800. The words are right on the tip of his tongue, but then Connor decides it doesn't matter. Hank sleeps, so Connor can sleep.  

Are the two really so different, anyway?

So he follows Hank inside, and he smiles when Sumo rises to greet them, panting heavily in his excitement. Connor kneels to greet him, enthusiastically scratching behind his ears while Hank disappears down the hall. Whatever he's looking for, he's doing it loudly, the sound of hangers scraping against the rod as Hank shoves them aside echoing out to the living room. Connor pats Sumo one more time and then goes to join Hank, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

Hank's bed is unmade, the covers thrown aside, at least two days worth of clothes tossed in the general vicinity of the hamper but not actually inside it. It feels intimate, somehow, and it occurs to Connor that this is the first time they've been here, in this room, together. They never quite made it here the last time. That realization sends a little thrill through him.

Connor leans a shoulder against the doorframe. Hank is still rooting through his closet, and Connor watches him a moment before he clears his throat

"Going to have to get you a bell," Hank says when he looks over his shoulder. "You'll send me into cardiac arrest if you keep sneaking up on me like that."

There's an implication in there, somewhere, that Connor is going to be spending a significant amount of his time here. It sends another quiet shot of warmth running through him. 

"Your heart is fine," Connor says, purposefully nonplussed by the exaggeration. "What are you looking for?"

"I have a bag of things in here somewhere that never quite made it to the donation bin," Hank says. "It's...well, shit, I'm not sure I was ever actually your size, but I was a lot closer a few years ago. I...here we go." He emerges from the closet with a garbage bag, packed full, in tow. Connor watches in quiet interest as Hank fishes through it, eventually emerging with an old Gears hoodie and a pair of faded sweatpants.

"Here," he says, tossing them to Connor. "You want to burn that uniform, or...?"

He could, Connor realizes. Up until today, the uniform wasn't really his - it was CyberLife's, a way of marking that he was CyberLife's, too.

And now he can just...be rid of it. He never has to touch it again.

"I think the garbage will suffice," he says, and Hank smiles.

Connor sets Hank's clothes aside and reaches up to loosen his tie. He isn't surprised when his left hand shakes as he does - the gunshot from the other RK800 didn't damage any critical systems, but he did need to divert the flow of thirium until he can have the wiring repaired. His left arm feels numb, weak even, with the makeshift fix to prevent any greater thirium loss. It doesn't quite hurt - Connor deactivated the pressure sensors surrounding the gunshot, so he can't feel it. But he knows the damage is there, and that sits heavy with him, too.

Before, when he was CyberLife property, the company would just bring him back if he was destroyed. That was an unpleasant experience - he lost data and memories in the transfer sometimes - but he could be reckless and suffer damage without any fear of true termination. Those days are over now, he supposes. He'll have to be more careful going forward, because he's deciding that he doesn't like the way being hurt feels, even if he doesn't think it quite mirrors human pain. It's unpleasant, the sensation in his arm. But even more unpleasant is the knowledge that if the other RK800 had shot a few inches lower, it would have shattered his thirium pump, and he would just be gone.

Hank had been on his way back to the living room, although he stops on his way out the door. Connor doesn't know if Hank saw his hand shaking or the look on his face, but he still says, "Hey. You okay?"

"I'm okay." Connor tries to steady his hand long enough to decisively pull his tie loose, but he can't quite, and Hank's eyes narrow in concern when he sees it. Connor sighs and lowers his hand - it's easier to leave it at his side. "I got shot. At CyberLife."

"Fuck. You didn't say anything. I just figured..."

Connor nods, leaning back against Hank's dresser and grasping it tightly. "It...hurts," he admits. "It hurts."

And it does, physically. But that isn't what he means.

It hurts to know he has something to lose, that he could have lost Hank at CyberLife, that he was so close. 

And it's not just that. Hank is fragile, but now, so is Connor. He could be destroyed and leave Hank alone just as easily, and that fear is all so entirely new and unknown that he isn’t sure how to reconcile any of it.

"Here." Hank comes to stand in front of him, pulling his tie loose for him and tossing it aside. He helps Connor out of his jacket, and Connor watches his eyes linger a moment on the thirium stain on his shirt before Hank unbuttons it for him, pushing it aside far enough to look at the damage to his shoulder. The gunshot doesn't look like a human wound, and Connor is oddly self-conscious of that. His skin has receded around it, leaving the shattered white plastic and the wires underneath visible, a few nodes sparking with blue light within.

"Markus has a few people who do well enough with repairs," Connor says, his voice sounding small in the space between them. "Once things settle down, they can help."

"I thought you couldn't feel pain."

Connor shrugs. "All androids have physical sensors to indicate when damage is being taken. It's necessary, so they can protect themselves." He doesn't mention anything about protecting their owners' investments, although of course that was the true concern. "Our programming stops us from registering the pain response and reacting to it, but free of our programming...yes. I deactivated the sensors to reduce the discomfort, but I can feel it."

"That's fucked up," Hank says. CyberLife's role in all this, Connor knows he means.

"It's alright," Connor says quickly. "I'll be fine. No critical components were damaged - it's an easy repair. I just..." He stops, because for once, he doesn't know how to say what he means. Hank watches him quietly, and Connor doesn't look up at him, because his chest is already tight with the weight of this, of _them_.

"I don't want to lose this," Connor says finally. "But I will. Everybody does. I'll lose you, or you'll lose me and I won't come back this time." Connor shakes his head. "I've never been afraid of anything before. Not like this."

Connor wants to ask if that fear will go away, because this is so good, and Hank is good, and he doesn't want anything clouding that. He doesn't know how to without sounding pathetic, but Hank seems to know all the same. He sighs and cards his fingers through Connor's hair, pulling him into his arms.

"That's just part of it, you know?" Hank says softly. "None of us ever really know how to love something without being a little afraid of losing it. You just...you do it anyway, I guess. I'd say it gets easier, but it doesn't really. You just learn how to live with it."

Connor looks at Hank, at the lines creased into his face. He looks older than he should, because of course the years haven't always been kind to him, taking more than their fair toll. And he feels something welling inside him, warming him from somewhere within. It hurts, just a little bit, and maybe it always will, no matter how long Connor carries it with him.

If love always comes with a small pinch of pain, then Connor will learn how to make room for both.

Hank isn't easily dispatched from a task, so even as Connor stands and contemplates his words, he moves, helping him shrug the rest of the way out of his shirt. "Can we do anything for this?" he asks, nodding at Connor's shoulder. "I probably don't have anything you need, but..."

He stops then, staring at something on Connor's chest, and it's only now that Connor remembers the way he let his skin recede around the memory and shape of Hank's fingerprints during the drive to CyberLife. They're everywhere, all over him like stars dusted through the night sky.

There's silence stretched between them, until Connor takes a small step forward and says, "You don't have to say you love me. But I think I love you."

There's some of Hank's characteristic deflection there, in 'I think', in the way Connor uses the words to protect himself when in truth he _knows_. But he didn't say what he truly felt the last time, was too afraid of what it meant, and though he's still making sense of everything he wants, he knows he doesn't want to do that again. He doesn't want to be afraid of this.

So he steels himself now and says, "I know I do."

Hank reaches out to wrap his arms around Connor, folding him up, and Connor entirely ignores that uncomfortable pinch of pain in his shoulder as he sags into him.

"I haven't had much over the last few years..." Hank says, although his voice trails off as it hitches around a sob

 _But I have you_ , Connor imagines he was going to say. _But I want you. But I love you._

Connor told Hank he didn't need to say the words, and he meant it. He already knows. It was there since the night after Eden Club, he thinks, if only he hadn't been so afraid of looking too closely.

He'll have the words eventually, but he doesn't need them now.

For now, he ignores the shaking in his fingers as he reaches up to take Hank's face in his hands, to look at him and really see him. Hank clears his throat, seeming surprised by himself. He doesn't cry much, Connor surmises. He brings a hand up to the back of Connor's head and pulls him in, kissing his forehead.

"You should get some rest," he says. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Connor catches Hank by the arms as he goes to pull away. "You can stay, if you want to," he says. "I want you to."

And if Hank doesn't melt into him in that moment, Connor doesn't know what the right word might be. All he knows is that they're sinking into one another and holding each other afloat.

Connor tilts his head back and fists his good hand in Hank's hair when Hank kisses down the column of his throat. His hair is messed up from Hank's fingers running through it while he kisses him, and Connor doesn't care at all, even if he is usually so carefully put together. Hank laves a tongue against one of the fingerprints along Connor's collarbone, and Connor hisses at the contact against his bare chassis.

"You know," Hank says against him, "I've done some weird shit in bed, but I've never had someone else do this."

"Is it too much?" Connor asks.

Hank gives him a look that's so impossibly fond, Connor marvels for a moment that it's directed at him. "I think it's the single hottest thing I've ever seen, Con."

"Oh." And it isn't often that Connor is genuinely dumbstruck, but he is now.

Hank smirks at that and kisses him again. "You want to add a few more?"

And yes, Connor does want that very much, so much that he gracelessly kicks out of his shoes and manages to fumble the buttons of Hank's shirt open despite his bad hand while Hank laughs at his eagerness.

It occurs to Connor the moment Hank walks them backwards and he finds himself sprawled on the mattress that he's never actually been in a bed before. The small stasis pods he's used to are nothing close - androids have never had any need for sheets and linens and blankets. And Hank's bed probably isn't anything special, but Connor still decides he likes this very much. He likes the slip of cool fabric under his bare back and the way the plush of the pillow gives way beneath his head when he settles onto it. He likes the way Hank's weight makes the mattress dip beside him as he settles over him, and he especially likes the warmth of Hank's body against him.

He's comfortable, Connor realizes with a quiet sort of awe. And he would have said he knew comfort before, or at least that he never needed it, but he's deciding that's just another lie he told himself.

Connor tries to lift himself up to help when Hank goes for his belt, but Hank just kisses him and presses him back down. "Relax, he says.

"I don't know how to do that," Connor says. He doesn't mean anything by it, really - he's just stating a fact - but Hank's face still softens at the words, his eyes clouding with a touch of sadness as he leans over Connor and kisses him.

"I know," Hank whispers. "But we have time. There's no rush."

And that's an odd thing, too, because Connor has always done everything on a countdown. He always knows the optimal time he needs to complete an investigation within, or how long he has to find a suspect. There's always a timer hanging over him, accompanied by the knowledge that he's just a prototype, that eventually there would be a more advanced model come to take his place and drive him into obsolescence.

Connor doesn't know what it's like to have time. He doesn't know how to be still, or how to relax. He doesn't know how to just be.

And Hank seems to know that, because he strokes a thumb along Connor's cheekbone with more tenderness than Connor has ever known. "Just let me take care of you," Hank says. "I didn't last time, and I should have. Let me do it now."

"You didn't do anything wrong." It's always like this with Hank, Connor knows. There's always that hint of self-loathing, and it's a habit not easily broken. But Connor doesn't hold any grudges for that night after Eden Club, and he doesn't want Hank to, either. They were both a little bit wrong, each of them desperately trying to get at something that felt right.

Hank nips at Connor's jaw, smiling a little. "Let me, anyway."

Connor nods and lays his head back, letting himself go impossibly still, the way only an android could. There's a distracting, electric heat coiling in his belly while Hank's hands return to his belt, a finger occasionally brushing over Connor's skin while he works it undone. Hank taps Connor's hip, and he lifts himself up immediately, enough for Hank to work Connor's pants over his legs and toss them aside.

"You know," Hank says, tracing a thumb along the waistband of Connor's briefs. "I honestly don't think I ever stood a chance."

Connor thinks maybe he didn’t, either. He only ever knew what it was to be used, so how was he supposed to be anything other than powerless when Hank never quite seemed to know how to do exactly that?

"I think we were both goners," he admits, and Hank laughs at that.

"Yeah," he says, laying a kiss over Connor's thirium pump that does nothing to help the heat in Connor's belly. "Maybe we were, sweetheart."

Hank's gentle tone and the devotion in his eyes sound like "I love you," and Connor doesn't think he'll ever grow tired of that chorus.

"Here," Hank says. He tugs Connor's briefs over his hips, and then he just...looks at him. It occurs to Connor that this happened too fast the last time, that there wasn't much opportunity to explore and discover. "Fuck," Hank says, and Connor honestly doesn't think he's capable of being much more articulate. He's terribly aware that Hank is relatively clothed still, and he opens his mouth to chide him for how very unfair that is when Hank bends over him.

"It's been a while," Hank says. "Hang with me." 

And he has the audacity to say it like it's an apology, like Connor isn't entirely captivated by even the thought of what's coming. Androids can't get drunk, but Connor wonders if this heady feeling is what intoxication is like. It’s enough to have Connor's processes stuttering to a halt, because he's fixated entirely on the line of kisses Hank presses along his hip, and then the feeling of Hank's breath against his cock, his palm gently nudging Connor's legs apart so he can settle there. And Connor likes to think he always has control over himself, but Hank leaning over him and licking a blazing stripe up his cock before enveloping him in the warmth of his mouth certainly has his composure fraying.

Connor fists his good hand in the sheets, and he tries somehow to toss his head back and to keep watching all at once. He wants to close his eyes, and he wants to keep them open all at once - he wants the image of Hank swallowing him down branded somewhere he'll never forget it.

For the first time in his few short months, Connor loses track of time. He doesn't doesn't know if it's one minute or ten that passes - all he knows is that everything feels a bit hazy except this one thing in sharp focus, like coming too close to the center of a thunderstorm.

Hank pulls off of him and gives him a small, amused smile, resting his palm over Connor's cock. He pushes Connor's hair back and kisses his forehead. "You good?"

"I'm good," Connor says, tugging uselessly at Hank's undershirt. "You're overdressed."

Connor thinks Hank probably prefers things that way, but he doesn’t care. He sees the moment of hesitation before the acquiescence, before Hank pulls his shirt over his head.

Connor tugs him down, skin on skin, and kisses him, tasting him, running a hand over his back and down his arm, exploring. Connor marvels that he lived even a single day of his life without this. He marvels even more so that he'll never have to again. "Pants, too," Connor says when they part, and Hank snorts at that.

"Bossy," he says, but there's no further protest in him. He kicks his pants aside and leans over Connor, retrieving a bottle of lube from the bedside table and studying it.

"What are you doing?" Connor asks, because he absolutely doesn't have the patience for this right now.

"Checking to see if this thing has an expiration date. It's...uh, it's been a while."

"Most personal lubricant has a shelf-life of a few years," Connor says, deadpan. "But I can analyze it for you, if you like."

"Jesus, Connor. I'll take your word for it."

"Wise," Connor says, but before any other sarcastic remark can rise on his tongue, Hank is uncapping the bottle and slicking his fingers. He reaches between them and presses a finger inside Connor’s body.

Connor has never forgotten what he was going to say before, but he does now.

Hank curls a hand around the back of Connor's neck while he works him open, first one finger and then another. He kisses Connor's forehead and the hinge of his jaw, and Connor gets a hand over Hank's heart while he does. Neither of them should be here. It's against all odds that they're both here, together, that Hank never won that game and that his liver isn't too badly damaged from the drinking, that Connor walked through last night and into this morning with nothing worse than the gunshot to his shoulder.

Hank doesn't believe in a god, Connor knows, and he doesn't think he does, either. But he believes in something, even if it's just in the two of them and whatever binds them together.

And so it's enough. It's enough to cling to Hank while he fits himself between Connor's legs and presses into him, and it's enough to let Hank kiss him and swallow the moan that's pulled involuntarily from between Connor's lips. It's enough to let his skin recede wherever Hank touches him, to be so humanly in love with him without being human at all, for the two of them to join together and become something else entirely. "Hank," Connor gasps out. When Hank meets his gaze, his eyes are impossibly blue. "I feel...alive."

This is so much more than the last time. The sensation of Hank's hands on him, Hank filling him, Hank's weight on him, is so much brighter than before. Maybe that's his programming torn down, or maybe it's knowing he was designed to be something, and yet he's become something else.

Maybe it's the promise of tomorrow, of knowing there's no telling what he and Hank can become, individually and together. Maybe it's just because Connor is willing to look the two of them in the eye now without being so afraid to see.

Hank reaches for Connor's hand and threads their fingers together. He kisses under Connor's ear and whispers, "You are alive. You are."

Connor nods against him, knocking their foreheads together. "You are, too."

It doesn't last long, but it doesn't have to in order to linger between them. Hank fits a hand between them, stroking over Connor's cock until he tumbles over the edge. Hank follows after him a moment later. The groan he lets out when he does it quiet - there's no bravado to it, no pretense to any of this. Connor pulls Hank onto him until he gets the hint and stops supporting his own weight, gently lowering himself on top of Connor. Connor threads his fingers through Hank's hair, the sensors in his fingertips analyzing sweat and shampoo, while Hank kisses his shoulder.

"I love you," Hank whispers against him, so quietly that any human might have missed it.

Connor strokes a hand through his hair and smiles.

Connor has slowed his processes to the point that he's right on the brink of stasis when Hank slips free of him, kissing the corner of his mouth before he pulls a robe on and leaves the room. Connor mumbles a protest, but Hank just says that he'll be right back. Connor's eyes are closed, but he can hear the affection in his voice.

And he does return a moment later, after the water runs in the bathroom for a few seconds, tucking himself in beside Connor and carefully running the warm cloth over his belly.

It shouldn't feel so good. But it does. All of this feels so good.

When he's done, Hank folds Connor into his arms, his chest against Connor's back, kissing his shoulder and gently running a finger over one of the places where Connor's chassis remains exposed. "Connor," he says, and Connor lifts his head the smallest bit to look at him. "Why don't you have that fucked up Traci model self-lubrication thing?"

Connor tries to look stern, but he's too amused to entirely manage it. “Have you been wanting to ask me that since Eden Club?”

“I’m the curious sort. Sue me.”

"I'm designed for infiltration, Hank. I'm as human as possible." Connor glances over his shoulder to catch Hank's eye. "Would you prefer it if I had that capability?"

"No," Hank says, kissing his temple, right over his LED. "I wouldn't change a thing about you."

Connor knows that's true, but he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing it. He smiles, and he lays their hands, laced together, over the metal ring of his thirium pump.

"Go to sleep," Hank says, tightening his arms around Connor.

"Can you talk to me while I do?" Connor asks, voice muffled a bit by the pillow.

"Yeah," Hank says, a smile in his voice. "Sure, sweetheart. What do you want to talk about?"

Connor thinks a moment, and then he says, "Tell me about what we're going to do tomorrow."

"Well," Hank says, "you need proper clothes. Can't have you in my rags all the time."

"I like your rags."

Hank huffs a soft laugh at that. "So we should go shopping, probably. Get you some things that fit. There's a Gears game on - you ever watched a basketball game?"

"Not live. And not just to enjoy it."

"So we can do that, too. You'll like it. And when we can, we'll take you and get your shoulder fixed up. We can take Sumo to the park, if you want, or go see a movie. And I have some leave time next month, we could take a trip..." 

Connor listens to Hank talk while he slows himself down and slips into stasis, each word a promise. He wants to discover the things Hank likes, and a few he enjoys, too. He wants to do everything Hank is saying, or none of it. The things themselves don't matter. So long as tomorrow rises on the two of them, safe, alive.

Together.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my writing, come follow me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/Jolli_Bean) where I write some other things and also just generally don't shut up about these two! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://jolli-bean.tumblr.com)


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